


Started anew

by Siff



Series: Not much we haven't shared [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: And angst, Fluff and Angst, From friends to lovers, I dont usually write this kind of stuff, M/M, Misunderstandings, SO MUCH FLUFF, and all that, and romance stuff, musketeers modern au, very strange to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:50:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: Friends can't have sex and then still be friends - that is a golden rule. So when Athos suddenly ges MIA, Porthos gets very worried.





	Started anew

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna point out that the stories in this series are not in order - sooooo much happens between the two first and this one, and one day I'll write them. One day...
> 
> Anyway! I don't usually write romance stuff - I'm bad at it and tend to go more in the... violence... kinda... stories. So this is a first for me, I think...
> 
> None the less, here it is. Enjoy!

As soon as the door closed, Athos ran to the window.

London was grey with clouds and rain, but between the many people wearing coats and holding umbrellas, he easily spotted Porthos, walking slowly towards the tube.

Athos sighed and leaned his forehead against the window glass.

He fucked up. He fucked up bad.

He just didn’t know how bad.

Straightening up, he ran a hand through his hair, feeling the grease that had built up in it. The motion made him remember another hand, a stronger, larger hand doing the same in the darkness, before it had slipped down to his jaw. His own hand followed the same path, and on his own skin, he could smell him. He dropped his hand at once.

Fucking hell.

He grabbed his t-shirt and sniffed it. The same smell clung to the fabric. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. A tingle ran down his spine, heat pooled deep in his stomach. When he opened his eyes again, the world was blurry.

Fuck.

He tore off his t-shirt, throwing it aside and ran to the bathroom. His sweatpants and boxers were kicked off as well and he stepped into the shower, turning it on so fast that only cold streams of water came out. He forced himself to stay under the spray. The few seconds it took before the warmth came through was enough for his skin to hurt and grow numb, before relaxing was warm water then streamed down his body.

He scrubbed himself several times. Between each layer of soap, he sniffed at his skin to check, closing his eyes as the smell persisted to hang on to him. Again, and again he washed until he only smelled like cheap shampoo.

When he stepped out, not caring about the water dripping unto the floor, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His pale skin was red and tender, and he had scratched himself in his eagerness to get clean. But none of that hid the red marks on his collarbone or the faint prints of teeth on his neck. He slowly reached up and brushed a finger against them. There was a slight soreness. He pressed against it and closed his eyes.

The memory of how he had gotten them flashed through his mind. The lips gracing his skin, the teeth nipping. The hands holding him down in a too delicious way.

He placed his hand flat on the marks, hiding them. His head fell forward.

He was such an idiot. A fucking, bloody idiot. He had screwed up so, so badly.

He felt warm too warm now, dizzy. The familiar symptoms of a classic hangover began to feel overwhelming now that Porthos had left. He felt like shit and he just wanted to sleep. Sleep it all away.

Maybe when he woke up, the world would be just like it had always been.

Not bothering with clothes, he wandered into his bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, only to shoot back up as if it had shocked him.

The smell was everywhere. On the pillows, the sheets, the covers. Every-fucking-where.

He stumbled into the living room and eyed the couch. They had sat there most of the morning, watching television – or Porthos had. Athos had nothing but trying to fight the feeling of regret and awkwardness that threatened to choke him.

He lay down on the couch, careful to place his head on the end Porthos hadn’t touched at all and buried his face in the pillow Constance had bought for him. He pulled the blanket over his head, like a child hiding from the world.

He needed to hide from the world.

 

* * * 

 

Closing the door after him, Porthos let out a sigh and shrugged out of his jacket. Man, his head was killing him.

“Aramis?” he called into the flat and grinned when a truly pathetic groan came as an answer. He put his shoes aside and walked down the small hallway, glancing into Aramis’ room and found it empty. Then he headed for the living room and snorted at the sight that met him.

Aramis was sprawled out on the couch, legs sticking out from beneath the blanket covering his lower body, which Porthos suspected was as bare as his chest. The only part of him that seemed dressed was his right foot, where a lonely sock was fighting to stay on.

Aramis heard him enter and tilted his head back to look at Porthos. He looked knackered. His hair was wild and his eyes were slightly puffy. All evidence of a very good night out. But for some reason Porthos couldn’t fathom, in his sprawled, unkempt state, Aramis was still bloody handsome to look at.

“Welcome home,” he grinned and gave Porthos a small, lazy wave.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Porthos and walked over, kicking slightly to Aramis’ legs until he reluctantly moved to make room on the couch. Porthos dropped down heavily and let his head fall back with a sigh. “What are you watching?”

“ _Dr. Who_ reruns,” said Aramis and rolled his head to the side to look at Porthos. “So, did you get Mr. de la Fere safely home last night.”

Porthos swallowed. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes.

“Good,” said Aramis. “I always fear for our friend’s virtue. Good that a strong, noble gentleman such as yourself was there to…” he trailed off and Porthos begged to all known gods that he wasn’t using that strange power he had. He felt Aramis shift on the couch and jerked slightly as fingers grabbed the color of his shirt and pulled it down.

“Is that…” the words were spoken very slowly and Porthos inwardly groaned. “…a _hickey_?”

“No,” he said and slapped the fingers away. They quickly returned and when he tried to slap them away again, a hand grabbed his, and held on. He opened his eyes and looked at Aramis who was staring at his neck with clear chock on his face. His mouth was even hanging open.

“Let go.”

Aramis ignored him and his eyes flickered up to meet Porthos’. “Where did you get that?”

“Nowhere, now let go or I’ll pummel you.” Aramis held on.

“You didn’t have it when we left the pub,” he said and traced the bruise with his thumb. The sensation made Porthos close his eyes, before opening them sharply. “Which mean you got it after you stuffed Athos into the cab and…” Aramis let go of him and leaned away. Porthos swallowed and looked at the baffled expression on his face.

“You slept with Athos.”

Despite the heat filling his cheeks, Porthos couldn’t help it. He grinned. Aramis slapped him on the arm.

“You bastard! Why didn’t you just say so?”

“You don’t just… say that kind of things,” said Porthos and scratched his neck a little embarrassed. He wasn’t sure he had wanted Aramis to know at all. Not until he knew how to feel about himself.

“Okay, you have to tell me everything!” said Aramis and maneuvered around until he sat sideways on the couch, legs folded before him. Porthos lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

“Cover yourself will you! And what are you? A fifteen-year-old girl?”

“Yes,” said Aramis and pulled the blanket over his crotch. “There, I’m decent. Now, talk!”

“There’s nothing to say really,” said Porthos, knowing well how weak of an attempt that was. When Aramis wanted to know something, he always got his way.

And on cue, Aramis rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, you have wanted him for almost a year now.”

Porthos stared at him. “What?”

Aramis gave him a _are you kidding me_ look. “New Years Eve? When you followed him out into the yard and gave him your coat? The way you stared at him, it was obvious.”

“Okay, how do you even know that? You were busy sticking your tongue down the throat of… whats-her-name.”

“Laura, Porthos, please don’t be crass,” said Aramis matter-of-factly. “And I am truly disappointed if you for an instance believe that I don’t know everything about our little group of friends. I called Constance and d’Artagnan, remember?”

Porthos pursed his lips slightly. “I think we all called that. The kid had it bad. How long did it take him before he asked her out?”

Aramis sighed dramatically, “Nearly six months, three weeks and– Hey! Don’t change the subject. This is about you and Athos.”

“There is nothing between me and Athos!” said Porthos.

“Except sex,” said Aramis. “And good sex, since you didn’t come home until after noon.”

“It… it wasn’t like that,” said Porthos weakly. “It just… happened.”

“Right,” said Aramis slowly. “Just happened. Yeah, I’m not buying that and I’m going to need some more details.” Porthos groaned and threw his head back. Aramis poked at him with a finger. “Talk me through the night, and please don’t spare any details. I might be a delicate flower but some things just must be known and I’m willing to sacrifice my innocent this one time. How long was it?”

“Aramis!”

“Fine, fine, let's start at the beginning. The cab ride. Start there!”

“There’s nothing to tell. Normal cab ride. He even fell asleep.”

“So, you carried him up the stairs, bridal style, then?” Porthos glared at him and Aramis held up his hands. “Okay, okay I’ll be nice! Just, what happened?”

Porthos sighed. It had been just like the end of any other night out. They parted ways at the pub, Aramis usually with some girl he had met, and Porthos made sure Athos got home. It was an old dance now, getting the other man up the stairs and into his apartment. Only, he hadn’t seemed as drunk as he usually was. 

Porthos usually had to drag him into bed, but this time, Athos had stayed on his feet, swaying slightly in the hallway and looking like a lost lamb. The memory made Porthos smile fondly. He had helped Athos get out of his jacket and white shirt and helped him into a t-shirt he had found in his dresser. When he’s finally gotten the fabric over his head, Athos had leaned against him, forehead pressed against his chest.

Porthos remembered saying something and hugging him, and Athos had tilted his head up, chin dragging over Porthos’ shirt, and smiled up at him. Porthos heart had done the thing it always did when Athos smiled at him. Only this time, they were standing so close, and Athos’ eyes were so blue as they stared into his.

Porthos had helped him lie down in the bed, but when he straightened up to leave, Athos’ hand had grabbed his shirt, keeping him in place.

“Stay,” Athos had mumbled, and from beneath his mop of hair, his blue eyes had looked up at Porthos intensely. Before he knew it, Porthos had undressed down to his boxers and shirt and crawled under the covers. He had sighed as he sunk down in it. It was a really good bed.

Now, Porthos had been prepared to just sleep on the edge of the madras, but Athos had tugged at his shirt. “Room enough for both of us,” he’d mumbled. And he was right. It was the largest bed Porthos had ever layed in. He shifted closer to the middle and his shoulder brushed Athos’.

Suddenly he was very awake and felt almost impossible sober. With both of them under the covers, it quickly became warm and nice, but Porthos couldn’t relax. Athos’ breathing, sounding so close to his ear, was uneven. They lay there for a while, both awake.

Then Athos shifted and when Porthos glances sideways, Athos stared back at him, lying on his side, facing him. Porthos had felt his mouth dry up. Thoughts swirled in his head. Fantasies he had only dared to imagine when he alone at night suddenly filled his mind.

His heart was beating almost violently in his chest and he shifted too, turning to lie on his side and faced Athos. They were very close now. Athos still stared at him.

Porthos tried to chuckle. “You look like a mess,” he had said and reached out to ruffled Athos’ hair. As soon as he touched the soft locks, Athos closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Porthos felt his heart jump and his breath came a little quicker.

Athos opened his eyes.

Slowly, carefully, Porthos cupped Athos’ cheek, running his thumb over the sharp bone he found there. Athos’ eyes never left his and Porthos felt like he had entered another world. Nothing else suddenly existed. Only them. Only Porthos’ hand on Athos’ cheek.

A burst of courage made Porthos slide his hand down further, past Athos’ jaw until his fingers graced his neck. He felt Athos’ pulse, mirroring his own in speed and intensity. Further down until he touched the fabric of the t-shirt and then bit more down, his hand touched Athos chest. He was breathing fast now and Porthos knew he was too.

He looked down at his hand, barely visible under the covers. He watched as he moved it down to lie on Athos hips, just on the edge of his t-shirt. A single brush of his fingers and he touching bare skin. When he looked up, Athos’ eyes were half closed.

No thought went through his mind as he leaned closer. The kiss was nothing really. Just lips pressed against each other, but Porthos felt like he had been struck by lightning.

How many times had he fantasied about this, dreamed about it, wondered how it would feel? Even longed for it. When he pulled back, he suddenly realized what was happening, what he had done. He had just kissed Athos, one of his best friends.

He made to pull away, but Athos grabbed his shirt and pulled him back into another kiss. This one was wet and deep, and they moved closer. Athos’ hand sneaked up to touch his cheek, and that touch almost made Porthos lose all control. His arm sneaked around Athos’ middle and pulled him flush against him, their warm bodies so close that Porthos could feel Athos’ heartbeat against his chest.

They kissed like they would die if they stopped. Athos moaned slightly as Porthos tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, while busying himself with touching as much of Athos as he possibly could. He ran his hand up under his t-shirt, stroking his back up and down, enjoying everything second of it. When his hand slipped too low, cubing Athos’ backside, Athos whined.

Porthos pulled back, afraid he had crossed the line when Athos rolled onto his back, but his fears were put to an end when hands reached for him, tugging him closer, and Porthos gladly followed the silent command, until he was lying on top of him, his thigh between Athos’ legs. 

“So, you fucked him?”

Porthos blinked and looked at Aramis, almost startled at being pulled out of the memory so suddenly. “Woa’?”

“So, you fucked him?” asked Aramis, like he was asking if it was going to rain. “You fucked him real good, because, by god, if anyone needs it, it's him.”

Porthos cleared his throat, the heat in his cheeks so hot he feared his beard might catch on fire. “N-No, we didn’t… we didn’t have…”

“Time? Patience? Stamina?” Aramis oh so helpfully suggested.

“Condoms,” said Porthos. “We didn’t have anything to actually…” he waved a hand in front of him, “…do it with.”

“Well, that’s a little disappointing, I have to admit,” said Aramis. “But did you at least do other stuff.”

Porthos couldn’t help the smile that crept over his lips. “Oh, there was stuff. Definitely stuff.”

“Good stuff?”

“The best kind of stuff.”

Aramis threw his hands up in the air. “Praise the Lord! Porthos got laid, but more importantly – so did Athos! This calls for a celebration.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” growled Porthos and grabbed Aramis by the arm as he made to get up from the couch. “You are not calling anyone or inviting anyone over, okay! I’m still pretty hungover and you are naked. We are not celebrating anything. Got it?”

“Fine, fine.” Aramis sat back down, looking disappointed. “But at least let me pay for the traditional Post Party Pizza later.”

“Deal,” said Porthos relieved. He wasn’t sure he would survive a third-degree-interrogation from Constance. If anyone was worse than Aramis, it was her.

His relief lasted only about five hours, though, for as he went to the door to get their order, Mike, their usual delivery guy handed him the pizzas with a grin and a congratulation.

“What?” Porthos asked confused, holding the boxes of food in his hands.

“Aramis told us on the phone,” said Mike with a grin and saluted Porthos before leaving. Porthos stormed back into the living room. Aramis sat on the couch, looking far too innocent, but before Porthos could start the yelling, his phone dinged and on the screen was a text from Constance.

_You and Athos did what???_

Porthos put the pizza boxes down on the coffee table and looked down at Aramis, who was slowly getting up from the couch, no doubt sensing the danger.

“You are so dead.”

 

* * *

 

_Athos are you okay? Please answer_

Porthos stared at his phone screen, rereading his last text again at again. Beneath it was a tiny _Read_ that told him that not only did Athos’ phone still work, but the man had actually read the message. He just hadn’t replied.

The first day or so, it hadn’t worried Porthos. Athos was often busy at work. But a week had almost passed and Porthos was more than anxious now.

“You know, most people read a bit better when their phone is _more_ than an inch from their face,” said Aramis, appearing beside Porthos out of the blue.

Porthos lowered the phone and stared up at him, or tried to, since the light from the screen made dots appear in his vision.

“He hasn’t answered.”

“Still?” Aramis frowned a bit, putting down his bag. “Tried calling him?”

“About a hundred times,” said Porthos and ruffled his hair in frustration. “No answer at all. But look, he reads my texts.”

Aramis got a look on his face that Porthos really didn’t like. “Porthos–“

“No.” Porthos got up from the couch, clenching the phone in his hand. “No, he’s just busy, that’s all.”

“Have you tried his place?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” mumbled Porthos, glancing at his phone again.

“I know, but you're worried, right? Just drop by, see if he wants to talk. Maybe there’s a good reason why he hasn’t answered.”

“Right,” said Porthos and chewed a bit on his lower lip. “I’ll try that.”

He stuffed his phone into his pocket at grabbed his jacket. He made record time getting to Athos’ place, running early all the way, even thru a red light. He pressed the intercom by the door directed to Athos flat, but no answer came. Then he tried Mrs. McGawan, Athos’ elderly neighbor, who thankfully let him into the building. He scaled the stairs and reached Athos’ door, trying to knock normally on it. No answer.

“Athos,” he yelled and knocked again, this time harder. “Athos!”

He jumped when the door next to him opened, and Mrs. McGawan peeked out. She was a small, round lady, but with one of the kindest smiles, Porthos had ever seen. Whenever he and Aramis visited Athos and happened to meet her on the stairs, she always handed them candy she seemed to carry in her handbag. Porthos liked her.

“He isn’t home, I’m afraid,” she said and nodded at Athos’ door. Porthos’ heart sank.

“He left?”

“A few days ago, bags and all, and in a real hurry.”

Porthos felt like he had been punched in the gut. “He really left?”

Mrs. McGawan nodded sadly. “I’m sorry, dear.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Did she say where he went?_ ”

“No,” huffed Porthos, jumping down the stairs while trying to keep the phone pressed to his ear. “Just that he left.”

“ _Okay, okay, we just need to stay calm,_ ” said Aramis, sounding anything but. Porthos felt the same. Twice they had tried that Athos disappeared without a word. The first time had been on his brother’s birthday. He had appeared by their front door two days later, looking like hell and stinking of booze. It hadn’t been a time for questions, and it took weeks before Athos told them about Thomas and how he died.

The second time was the night after they had met Athos’ ex-wife. It had been the worst week of Porthos’ life.

And now _he_ might be the reason why Athos was missing again. No matter what Aramis tried to tell him, Porthos knew this was about the night they had slept together.

The thought that he might course Athos so much pain, that he chose to do the same as the others times, was killing him.

“ _Porthos! Porthos calm down okay, I’ll call Ninon. If anyone knows where he is, it’s her_.”

“Yeah,” huffed Porthos and ran down the street. “Call me back as soon as you know something.”

“ _I will_ ,” said Aramis and hung up. Porthos lowered his phone and picked up his speed.

“Dammit, Athos,” he grumbled.

Aramis was on the phone with Ninon when Porthos burst into their flat. “What is she saying?” Porthos demanded only to see Aramis hold a hand up to him, telling him to wait.

“And you’re sure?” Aramis asked, and then nodded. “Okay, thank you. Thank you so much. Yeah… we will, thank you again, Ninon.” He hung up and looked at Porthos.

“Athos called in at work, saying he needed some time.”

“Okay,” said Porthos slowly. Athos hadn’t called in the last two times. This was good, right?

“And Ninon let him stay at her place.”

“He’s still in London then?”

Aramis shook his head. “No, he went north. She has a small village house up there. He took the train.”

“Do you have an address, then?” asked Porthos impatiently. Athos had left London, and that was bad. But he had a place to stay, which was good.

“Yeah.” Aramis held up a piece of paper. Porthos grabbed it and read it.

“I’m going after him,” he said and ran to his room.

“Wait, Porthos!” called Aramis and followed him. “Maybe you should let him be, give him some time. Maybe he really needs it.”

“No,” said Porthos and threw some warmer clothes in a bag. “If this is my fault, then I need to mend it. I’m not leaving him in the countryside, drinking himself into a stupor.”

“Fine,” sighed Aramis and stepped aside as Porthos walked back into the hall, pulling on his jacket. “Just call me when you find him.”

“I will,” said Porthos and suddenly just, stopped. He was breathing heavily and his hand holding the paper shook. He swallowed.

“Hey,” said Aramis and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It's going to be fine, all right? Everything is going to be okay.”

Porthos let himself be pulled into a hug and clung to Aramis, burying his face in his sweater. “I can’t lose him now.” He choked out the words. “Not now, not when I have felt… have… I can’t lose him, Aramis.”

Aramis stroked his hair. “Then go find out what’s going on, and then bring him home, okay.”

“Okay,” said Porthos and straightened up. He took a deep breath. “I’ll call you.” And then he was out the door and heading for the train station.

 

* * *

 

Two hours, a ridicules expensive last-minute train ticket, and a ride in the oldest bus in the world later, and Porthos was standing in the most poster card perfect little village he had ever seen.

It was small, with cozy little houses that had gardens and trees and little ponds and was just basically everything but London. And despite his distress, Porthos liked it.

The grey rainy weather seemed to have stayed in London, and here, despite the chill in the air, the sun was high in the sky and people walked around smiling, doing their daily shopping. All stores were gathered on one street, and Porthos quickly found someone to ask directions. Ninon’s cottage was not far from the village, and it took him only about thirty minutes to walk over there.

The cottage was small and cozy looking. Build of the same grey stone the fence was made of, and with a red roof, complete with a chimney and all. The small garden had a path that ran from the gate and to the front door. On the gate, the cottage’s name was written in blue letters. _Bluebelle_.

Nervously, Porthos entered the little garden. With summer long past, it looked bare, though there were several beds ready for new flowers to bloom in the spring. Beside the front door was a small garden table and a chair, right beneath an apple tree. An empty wine glass was on the table.

He reached the door and raised his hand to knock, only to freeze.

He hadn’t really thought this through, had he? What if Athos didn’t even want to see him? what if he only made it worse by coming here?

His hand dropped. Maybe he should go home…

No, he was still worried. He just had to make sure Athos was okay, and if he then wanted Porthos to leave, he would. No matter how much it hurt. Porthos knocked on the little wooden door.

He counted his heartbeats. One, two, three, four… ten, eleven, twelve… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen– the door opened and there was Athos.

He looked much better that Porthos had feared. Unruly hear and beard, but still dressed in comfortable looking sweater and loose trousers. He didn’t seem drunk on his ass but rather shocked at seeing Porthos standing by the door.

“W-What are you doing here?” he asked, looking a bit like he had seen a ghost.

“Just… wanted to make sure you were okay,” said Porthos. Athos frowned slightly, looking like he barely believed what was going on.

“And you came all the way from London to do so?”

Porthos shrugged. “Well, you didn’t answer my calls.”

Athos sighed and his shoulders sagged. He leaned against the doorframe and covered his eyes with a hand. “Did Ninon tell you?”

“Yeah, she’s worried about you too.”

“Dammit, Nin.”

“Hey,” said Porthos a reached out and grabbed Athos’ shoulder, ignoring with discomfort the way Athos flinched. “We were all worried. Me, Aramis and the others. We always are when you just disappear.”

Athos had the grace to at least look slightly guilty. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. I-I just needed a small vacation. Work and such.”

“Bullshit,” said Porthos. “You ran away because of me.” His heart sank when he saw how Athos lowered his eyes. Shit. “You ran because of what we did, right?”

Slowly, very slowly, Athos nodded. Porthos let go of his shoulder. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

Porthos blinked, confused. That was his line, not Athos’.

“What?”

“I’m… sorry,” said Athos, still looking down. “I screwed up. I'm sorry.”

“About what?” Porthos wanted to know. Here he had been ready to apologize and then Athos beat him to it, and for a reason, Porthos just didn’t know. “What are you sorry for?”

“That… night. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“So, you regret it then?” asked Porthos.

When Athos looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Athos blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Because friends can’t fuck and just keep being friends. Sex complicates things, it ruins things that are not supposed to be messed with.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes! You and Aramis have changed my life and then I fuck it all up by… by…” he seemed to search for the right word, and Porthos couldn’t help but grin when he offered it.

“By fucking.”

“Yes,” sighed Athos. “By fucking my best friend while drunk.”

“Technically, we didn’t really fuck,” said Porthos, earning a glare.

“Fine, then I screwed up by screwing you. Happy?”

“Well, technically–“

“Don’t. Even. Say it,” hissed Athos and held up a hand in warning. Porthos couldn’t help it. He burst out a laugh, which only made Athos glare even harder at him.

“I’m glad my misery is amusing to you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” said Porthos and raised both hands in peace. “It’s just funny how you think you screwed up.”

“But I did. I ruined us.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, really?” Athos raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever slept with a friend without it ending in disaster.”

Porthos cringed, remembering Charon, and Flea. And Aramis’ business with Marsac.

“No, I haven’t,” he said.

“Case and point,” said Athos, and sounded so terribly defeated that Porthos just wanted to pull him into a hug. Knowing that such a thing might make Athos run for the hills, he instead reached out and gently touched his arm instead.

“W-What if I don’t want to stay friends with you?”

Okay, that was the absolute wrong thing to say. Athos looked up at him, so much pain and panic on his face that Porthos instantly cursed himself. “No, I mean – what if I want to be more than friends? What if I’ve wanted that for a long time?”

Athos’ eyes flickered slightly. “So… that night wasn’t just…”

“Fucking?” said Porthos gently and dared to step closer to Athos. “No. Gods no. I’ve wanted you for so long, and not just for sex.” He gently touched Athos’ jaw and tilted his head up. “I want all of you.”

“Really?” Athos voice was so fragile, threatening to break any second.

“Remember the night we hung out at our place, and you somehow ended up asleep on top of me?” Athos nodded slightly. “I was so uncomfortable. My back hurt as hell and I ended up with a stiff neck but realized that I didn’t care. ‘Cause when you woke up, you lifted your head, all sleepy and like, and smiled at me. That’s when I realized I was in love you?”

“T-That was last year,” said Athos in a low voice.

“Yep,” said Porthos, thrilled that Athos remembered it so well. “But it was New Year’s Eve that I knew I loved you.”

“I… I thought I had dreamed it all up, drinking like I did,” said Athos, his eyes growing distant. “I didn’t think it had really happened.”

“It did.”

They looked at each other for a whole, and then Athos snorted. “I’m an idiot then.”

“Oh yeah,” grinned Porthos and dipped down. He kissed Athos slowly, giving him all the chances in the world to pull back, but instead felt a hand cradle the back of his neck, pulling him closer. They both gasped for air when they drew back.

“Do you want to come inside?” Athos asked.

“I’d love to,” said Porthos and followed him inside the cottage.


End file.
